True Lust Never Dies
by whodreamedit
Summary: Feeling compelled to keep an eye on Madison after their traumatic night at the frat party, Zoe learns that Madison has other, bigger plans for their social lives - and perhaps the lives (and deaths) of others.


Zoe leaned awkwardly against the peeling plaster of Flanagan's interior wall, and watched Madison reach over the bar, sweet-talking the bearded bartender and pointing to a vat of poisonous colored orange liquid. She had deep-seated misgivings about this. Zoe didn't particularly want to be participating in underage drinking in a bar in New Orleans. Frankly, given the week she'd had, she didn't want to be in New Orleans at all. Neither did she harbor any strong desire to act as Madison's stand-in best-friend. The actress was unpredictable, unpleasant, and out of control in a way that genuinely freaked Zoe out. Witnessing someone explode a bus didn't tend to endear them to you, no matter how much the bus' occupants had deserved it.

Except, of course, they hadn't all deserved it.

But Zoe felt a strange sort of obligation to Madison. Nobody could suffer that kind of trauma and experience no emotional or psychological repercussions whatsoever, and yet, aside from the exploded-bus, Madison had exhibited no behavior that could be considered out of the ordinary. Sure, she was still a sarcastic, mean-spirited bitch. But that wasn't exactly unusual.

Right on cue (for once), Madison swaggered into view, holding up two large plastic cups. She handed one of them to Zoe. "Here."

Zoe took the cup and sniffed it, dubiously. It smelled like kool-aid and kerosene. "What the hell is in this?"

Madison shrugged, taking a long draw of hers. "Beats me. Gets you blasted, though. You can't come to New Orleans and not drink a Hurricane. It's like…the rules."

Zoe was tempted to point out the irony of invoking 'the rules' given their recent streak of murder and mayhem, but decided it was best kept to herself. She took a small sip of her legally-mandated cocktail, and the sweet concoction slipped easily down her teenaged throat. Yes, indeed. Delicious, delicious irony.

Madison had been talking, but Zoe had not been listening. This, too, was not unusual. It was pretty easy to tell when Madison was just monologuing: she tended not to make direct eye-contact, and stared instead into the middle distance as if speaking to an invisible camera. Zoe tuned in just as Madison reached a pause in her soliloquy; "…and so anyway, I've decided that college parties are absolutely beneath me. College boys are just a waste of time. Since we're stuck here in 'the Hollywood of the South," Madison rolled her eyes "we may as well make the best of it."

"The best of…huh?" Zoe blinked, taking another sip of her drink. It was far more palatable than she had expected. You couldn't really taste the bajillion shots of liquor after the first gulp.

Madison turned to Zoe for the first time since she'd begun speaking, and fixed her with a look usually reserved for a monkey to whom you are trying to teach sign language, but who is spectacularly failing to grasp even the basics. "We're going to hang out with the grown-ups, Zoe. Adults. Real, actual people, not emotionally stunted little boys. Clubs. Bars. Parties…" she wiggled her eyebrows "This is one of the only towns in America where basically nobody checks ID. Why waste our time hanging out with stupid babies?"

Zoe looked for some sign in Madison's eyes – something that would tell her that the other girl was experiencing emotion: anger, grief, depression, anxiety. But Madison's movie-star mask was fixed tight onto her flawless features. She smiled at Zoe, her perfect teeth clamped together so tightly that no truths could possibly escape her mouth.

Zoe took another deep swig of her drink. Truthfully, she'd agreed to come out with Madison that afternoon because she'd been entertaining the notion of telling the other girl about Archie. About what she had done to him. About her power. After all, no consequences had befallen Madison for HER actions, and she'd fried a bunch of frat boys to a crisp inside a burning bus. There seemed to be no disciplinary action taken at Miss Robichaux's, and there was nothing to tie Madison to 'the bus incident' in the eyes of the New Orleans Police Department. Unless Madison filed a report about the rape. Which she clearly was not planning on doing.

So, really, Zoe told herself as she got to the glass-half-empty stage of tipsy, there was no reason not to tell Madison about what had happened. Even if Madison did rat her out – and why would she? – the consequences seemed negligible. And yet, something Nan had said at breakfast that morning held her back. They'd just finished their meal, and Queenie and Madison had already left the room, Madison complaining loudly about the "inedible" grits, which tasted like "snot mixed with sand mixed with oatmeal". Zoe had lingered, poking the remnants of a sausage around her plate and thinking, unavoidably, of how Archie's cock had felt under the hospital blanket, all warm and limp.

"Don't do it," Nan had said.

Zoe had looked up to find the other girl staring at her, unblinkingly. Nan had risen from the table, but hovered beside it, looking down at Zoe. "Don't what?" Zoe tried to keep her mind clear, but it was practically impossible. Trying not to think about something almost always made it impossible to erase from her mind, and the events of the last week had been particularly difficult to block out.

"Don't tell her." Nan took a few steps away from the table, before turning back to look over her shoulder. "We may be a team, but we're only as good as our weakest link. You don't wanna be the weak link, do you, Zoe?"

Zoe hadn't really known what she'd meant, then – she'd been too busy trying to think of kittens and rainbows, rather than the blood bubbling out of Archie's mouth. But Nan had known. Nan had obviously known. And now, in the bar with Madison, Zoe suspected she might be starting to figure it out.

"Why are you staring at me with your mouth half open like that?" Madison demanded, quirking an eyebrow at Zoe. "Are you drunk already? Jesus."

"No, no…" actually, Zoe thought, it was possible. She did feel a bit light-headed. "I was just thinking…"

"Thinking what?" Madison had finished her Hurricane already and sounded surprisingly lucid. Evidently she had an iron liver.

Oh shit. Oh shit. At least Madison couldn't read minds (that Zoe knew of), but the other girl was smart enough to know that she was hiding something, if she didn't come up with a lie pretty quickly. "I was thinking about Kyle." It was the first thing that came to her mind. Not as far off-topic as she'd have liked, but it would have to do. She could even feel herself flushing in embarrassment, which would probably lend an air of authenticity to the lie.

"Kyle?" Madison squinted in a manner which would have made a lesser individual look unattractive. "Who?"

Zoe chose her words carefully. She wasn't sure if Madison was feigning ignorance of the conversation they'd had in the kitchen the day after the party, or whether she genuinely didn't remember. But something about the way Madison was staring at her – hard, emotionless – made Zoe decide not to spell it out.  
"Just a guy from the…from the other night."

"Oh right." Madison grinned, snatching Zoe's cup from her hand and downing the rest of the drink. "Frat guy. Probable douchebag. Possibly deceased."

"Definitely deceased…" Zoe murmured, under her breath. She looked away from Madison, out through the dusty bar window to St. Philip street, where a tour group was gathering. The guide, a top-hatted fellow with a large pimp-cane, had obviously been a theatre major in college. His grand, booming voice – complete with mystifying faux-British accent – carried through the open doors of Flanagan's. "Ladies and gentlemen," the guide began "New Orleans has a bloody and macabre history – one of ghosts, of ghouls – of vampires, witches, and zombies…"

"Cheer up, space cadet." Madison shoved Zoe gently on the shoulder, shaking her out of her contemplations. "You're such a fucking drag sometimes, but I guess you're the best I can do. Here." She held something out to Zoe. A post-card.

Zoe turned it over in her hands. It was black, with silver embossed letters in a scrawling, script-like font. YOU HAVE BEEN SUMMONED, it said. Zoe flipped it over, but the back side of the card contained only a street address, and a series of complex astrological signs.

"See?" Madison cocked her head to one side, smug. "The best parties always find me, Zoe. Don't be too sad. You know what they say, right?"

Zoe glanced out the window again. The tour group had begun to set off down the street, leaving a trail of go-cups, plastic beads and disposable fans in their wake. "No," she replied, at length. "I've got no idea, Madison. What do they say."

Madison laughed as she turned toward the door. "True lust never dies, Zoe. True lust never dies." 


End file.
